


Home

by Imnotfallen



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Home, Hope, Love/Hate, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotfallen/pseuds/Imnotfallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was the first. Later there were other girls, girls whose faces he can barely remember let alone their hearts - Ino, Karin, Sakura. But she was the first. The girl who played with him before his parents died. The girl who found him covered in ashes and blood in the skeleton of his home. The girl they called a shaman, a witch, a monster. He just called her friend. And then she was gone and he didn't call her anything. Now he's the monster, or maybe they both are. Maybe they're both just monsters, homesick and lonely. Maybe he remembers her, the girl who could've saved him (or maybe not). Maybe everything will change when he finds her again (maybe not). Maybe he'll change. No. Probably not that. But maybe he will go home after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> So I've always loved the character of Sasuke and I've always wanted to write more of a love story for him but I've never felt talented enough to write something that wasn't cliche and to be perfectly honest I'm still not sure that I am..but i am proud of this attempt.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't in any way own the rights to Naruto or any of the song lyrics used

Prologue  
Youth

(And if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones)

We were all young once. Unformed, unbroken, innocent, our half-built thoughts full of heroes and princesses and fairy-tales. We weren’t always the way we are now, even if we can’t remember those days full of laughter and carefreeness and a sun that never seemed to stop shining.

Even the psychopath played once, loved once, laughed once. Look past the hate, the ice, the blood in their eyes and there’s a child looking back at you, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. 

He doesn’t know what he’s done, what he’s doing. Doesn’t know who he is, where he is, what he is. 

All he knows is that on the inside he’s still young, young and alone. 

He misses his friends, misses his family.

Misses his home.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

THEN  
(In the spring we made a boat out of feathers, out of bones)

 

Sometimes she was certain she’d break into a million pieces, and no-one would be there to pick them all up and glue her back together.

He knew her too well to believe there was anything in the world strong enough to break her.

There were days he was scared he’d never be great, never be special…never be anything. Just worthless. 

She was pretty sure he’d never understand how special he was. 

She hated the way every single girl watched him, stared at him, smiled at him and he just stared past them like he didn’t even care. Like they didn’t matter.

He hated the way he’d spend every waking moment watching her face change from across a room and she never even realize he was looking.

 

She was paranoid, neurotic, insecure.

He was arrogant, aloof, confident.

She didn’t care what happened to her as long as she went down knowing she’d done the right thing. 

He didn’t care what happened to him as long as he went down fighting, died gloriously and still managed to kick the crap out of whoever killed him. 

She was always there, always waiting, always looking over one shoulder to see if he cared enough to follow.

He was always halfway gone, far away, too scared to look over his shoulder because of the past standing just behind him, waiting to pull him down, down, down.

And yet…she was his friend before his parents died, before his brother left, before he was ripped in two so hard, so fast that no-one would ever be able to sew back the hole where his heart had been entirely. 

She saw white where he saw black. She could hold herself together when he was falling apart. She let every fear, every wound, every heartbreak show on her face…and he was only ever impassive, expressionless, blank.

But in his own way, he supposed her loved her. Trusted her more than any other human being on the planet – his life, his light, his heart.

And then one day, she was gone. No warning, no explanation, no…anything. She was gone and he was left behind and he told himself to forget because happiness was weakness anyway. 

And all that was left was darkness. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

NOW   
(Like my fathers, come to pass, seven years has gone so fast)

 

Now she knows she’s not going to break, because if life with its sledgehammer haven’t shattered her by now her bones must be made of titanium, even if her heart isn’t.

He doesn’t remember her, or her strength, so broken is his mind, his heart, his courage.

He’s hard, and vicious and cruel. It’s not about how good he is anymore, how talented, how special. All that matters is how many people he can kill before death catches up to him.

She’s good at killing people too. She just prefers to only kill when it’s justified. Too bad she can’t remember what that means anymore.

If she concentrates hard enough, she can remember the little boy he used to be – wide eyed, wary, always watching, always learning. But superimposed over the memory, over every memory, is the image of the menace behind the familiar smile, the monster lurking in the onyx black eyes.

Some nights his dreams fly away home, to Konoha and the Uchiha compound, to wide blue skies and her smile on the walk to the academy every morning. But he always wakes before he sees her eyes, the dream vanishing like smoke in the sunlight. Home is irrelevant, insignificant, insubstantial these days anyway; Konoha nothing but a lie, and her name nothing but a ghost, a phantom, a figment of his imagination.

She’s still paranoid, still watchful and she trusts even fewer people than she used to. Not that there’s anybody left to trust anyway. 

He’s sadistic, senseless, self-satisfied. He’s found his purpose now, he understands what he was meant to do. No life is sacred but his own, no purpose more important than his. 

She tried to stay home, tried to protect what she loved – the place she grew up in, the friends that became family, the childhood that became an altar, a shrine, a beacon when adulthood didn’t seem worth it. 

He left home and never came back. And all the times his dreams don’t run away from him, he burns the village every night in his sleep.

She doesn’t see black or white now, only grey. All he sees is shadows. Shadows and blood. They’re both broken, both shattered, the only difference is that she’s too scared of what that might mean, to admit it to herself. 

But underneath all that, somewhere far, far below the surface, beneath their cages of flesh and bone and pain and memory, lie the children they used to be; the scared, savage little girl with a smile that could light up a city and a heart big enough for the whole world hiding underneath her iron-tipped tongue. The calm, quiet, stone-faced boy who’d lost so much so fast and still kept on going, kept on fighting, kept on waking up in the mornings even though he didn’t know how much longer he could bear it.

Growing up is natural. It’s normal and it’s usual and we’re all encouraged to do it. 

But if you grow up too much, so much that you forget who you were to start with then you have nothing. Nothing to tie you down, nothing to keep you from flying away like a balloon – weightless, limp, lifeless. 

Most people forget. Most people move on. Or at least they try to.

Some don’t get a choice.

Because after all, he did love her. He never told anybody, not even himself. But he knew it. And in an odd way, maybe she knew it too.

They were young once. Young and in love. Now they’re older, estranged, bitter and wasted. Now the world is coming to an end. 

But sometimes she thinks she might have been able to save him.

And sometimes, though he regrets it, denies it, chokes back the thoughts like they’re poison in his mouth – he thinks of her, and wishes he could have been saved.

And that, I suppose, is where the story begins. 

Well, something like that anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> So what do you think? Is it ok? Is it awful? Let me know in a comment please? You have no idea how useful I find the feedback :)


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